


Half-Life

by Meatball42



Series: Torchwood Oneshots [8]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Alternate Universe - East of the Sun and West of the Moon Fusion, Blindfolds, M/M, Trust, not in a sexy way I'm afraid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 23:09:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4854152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/pseuds/Meatball42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto returns to a dark flat every day and hopes that his husband will be there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half-Life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the comment-fic prompt ‘East of the Sun and West of the Moon set-up. Every night Character A goes home and eats the dinner that's been laid out for them, watches tv, takes a shower, puts on a blindfold, and goes to bed. Then Character B climbs in next to them. They've been married for years and Character A has never seen Character B's face, because of some unspecified curse. How things turn out is up to the author, I just love this fairy tale.’

Ianto wakes up in an empty bed every morning. He goes to work at Ty Hywel, running around with files of information for the government of Wales and, he’s sure, making things move a lot faster and more smoothly. He takes lunch with a few colleagues, and when their shifts are over, sometimes he goes out with friends, but most of the time he goes home early, in case his husband is there.

Most days, the flat is empty. Ianto lights a few candles, then reads by them or watches television or uses his laptop. This is as bright as home ever gets, however: he hasn’t turned on the lights in the flat since the day he moved in, and all the windows are heavily curtained. Ianto cooks dinner by the light of a few candles, eats alone, and wraps the remainder in aluminum foil to keep it warm. When he goes to bed, he hopes that his husband will come home, and blows out his last candle.

Other days, the flat is not empty. There is always a candle lit in the front room on these days, and it’s the first thing Ianto sees when he opens the door. He picks up the blindfold next to it, puts it over his eyes, and calls out.

“I’m home!”

His husband approaches, heavy but gentle footsteps across the sitting room rug. Hands smooth up his arms to warn him, then wrap around his neck to pull him in for a kiss. Ianto kisses back, hotly some days, softly on others, depending on how long it’s been. Jack’s job is dangerous and important; sometimes he does not come home for days in a row.

Today, Ianto is content. Jack has been home before him twice this week, and if he’s not mistaken, Ianto’s about to eat his third well-cooked meal of the week. “Chicken pie?” he says, hopefully.

Jack chuckles. “You look so cute when you get excited.”

Ianto’s smile drops a hair and he touches Jack’s forehead, then his chin. There’s a tightness in his husband’s face that he has come to recognize. “Has something happened at work?”

“No,” Jack answers, then sighs. “You know me too well, he mutters, mulishly.

Ianto nudges him playfully, then takes off his coat. “Hang this up, will you?”

Jack leaves for the bedroom, and Ianto peeks very slightly under the blindfold to make his way to the kitchen by candlelight. The chicken pie is still steaming slightly, and he grins as he cuts a large slice onto a plate. Securing the blindfold once again, he feels his way to the kitchen table and sits down. “Ready,” he says.

Jack prepares his own plate and pours drinks for them both, setting Ianto’s in front of him where he always puts it. Ianto smiles in the direction of his husband's chair and digs in.

After dinner, they return to the sitting room. Some nights they listen to music, sometimes they watch movies using the contraption Jack rigged up that splits the couch in two with a curtain. They always hold hands underneath it, or lean against each other so they’re separated only by the bolt of fabric. Tonight, Jack reads aloud from P.G. Wodehouse. Ianto reclines on the armchair and lets his husband’s rich American voice roll over him.

They finish a chapter, and Ianto yawns. He smiles, and he can tell from the way his husband’s breath changes that he’s smiling too. “Time for bed,” he says, and yes, Ianto can hear the smile in his voice.

Ianto closes the door to the bathroom and turns on the light, the only room in the house that ever sees more than a few candles. He gives himself a minute to peel back the blindfold and get used to light again. The he uses the toilet, brushes his teeth, and stares at himself in the mirror.

He can hear Jack moving around in the bedroom, changing clothes, probably, and sighs as quietly as he can. He closes his eyes and remembers the shape of Jack’s face, traced out his Ianto’s fingers and his cheeks and occasionally his tongue, and then opens his eyes and tries to imagine what that face would look like next to his.

He puts the blindfold back on and turns the light off, passing Jack in the doorway. He puts on his bedclothes and lays down and leaves a corner of the blankets turned down. In a few minutes, Jack slips into bed beside him and Ianto hears him blow out the last candle before settling down beside him.

Except, tonight, he doesn’t. Unless they're planning on postponing sleep for a while, Jack always blows out the candle, then lays down and kisses Ianto, pulling him into his arms until Ianto squirms and forces him to let go so he can get comfortable. Tonight that quick, easy breath never comes, the bed never shifts as Jack’s tall form settles into the horizontal.

Ianto feels a quick frisson of fear: Jack never leaves a light on.

“What is it?” Ianto whispers. Something’s been wrong since he got home, just the slightest change in Jack’s tone of voice, a difference in the way he touched Ianto to let him know where he was and in the tightness of his hand as he led Ianto from the kitchen to the sitting room. It was in the muscles of his face when he got home, the miniscule flinch when Ianto touched him. And now the candle is unnecessarily lit.

Jack remains silent for a long time. Ianto’s face is turned toward him, toward where he imagines Jack’s face to be. He touches Jack’s chest, his neck, searching for and finding tension. He squeezes Jack’s hand when it takes his. “You know why we do this,” Jack says at last, his voice rough and deep. “The blindfold, the candles.”

“If I see your face, you’ll die,” Ianto replies quietly. He knows why they do this. It’s what he tells himself every day when anyone asks about the giver of the ring on his finger, what he tells himself when he wakes up at night after dreaming of a beloved yet blurry face. It’s what he says to himself when he questions whether he would rather love someone he can never see, or lose his husband forever.

“That’s not the whole truth.”

Almost instantly, Ianto feels sick to his stomach. He can’t speak for a few seconds from the explosion of emotions. “It’s not true?” he whispers.

“Not completely,” Jack says, and Ianto knows his voice by heart, can read every defensive nuance, can read the hint of guilt and shame and it’s not nearly enough.

“Then what has this all been for?” His voice raises as he sits up, until he’s raging at the blackness all around him. “The candles, the darkness, the secrets? What is this for?” he scrabbles at the blindfold and finds his fingers clenched in iron grips and held to his sides. 

“Don’t.”

He’s never heard his husband sound like that, and Ianto stops struggling. The pain in his fingers makes his eyes burn, and he gasps. “Why? Do you know how hard it's been, Jack? To do this every day? And it's all a lie?”

“If you see me, I will die. Just… not immediately.” Jack is trying to keep control of his voice. Only Ianto, who has studied it for so long, would be able to recognize the fear in it. “I’m immortal, Ianto. But if you saw me, I’d be able to die.”

Ianto shakes his head helplessly, but he accepted Jack’s curse years ago and somehow, this isn’t any harder to believe. “Does that make you Adam, then?” he jokes out of shock. “And seeing you is my sin?”

Jack doesn’t move an inch, though he relaxes his grip on Ianto’s fingers. Ianto takes a deep breath. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I want you to see me.”

“I’ve lost lovers before, Ianto,” Jack says quietly, and there is so much pain in his voice, pain Ianto’s hear only echoes of before. “I’ve lost wives. I’ve left them, or I’ve watched them die, and I just… I can’t do that with you. If I have to grow old and die with someone, I want it to be you.”

“I don’t…” Ianto’s voice shakes. “Have you thought about this, Jack?” 

“For months,” his husband answers. “Years, even. I want this,” he whispers, and his fingers curl under the blindfold. It slips off, and Ianto can feel his tears evaporating, can see the dim light of the candle beyond his eyelids, but he can't open them. His eyes are squeezed shut, years of fear and taboo impossible to ignore. Jack's familiar fingers stroke his cheeks, then his eyelids, new territory. Ianto's breath shakes and Jack whispers, "Look at me."

He opens his eyes and blinks as his pupils contract. Jack's face sharpens, and Ianto stares in awe. "You look exactly as I pictured you," he murmurs, and Jack smiles and it's even better than he's imagined.

"Think you can live with it?" Jack gestures at himself.

Ianto glances down at the body he's touched a thousand times, relearning it again with this latest sense. Then he looks back into Jack's eyes. They're blue.

"I couldn't live without it."


End file.
